


Seven Days

by sheafrotherdon, Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-17
Updated: 2008-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:18:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney's been off-world for seven days – a span of time that's been stretched at least one day too long, if the way John's pressed up against him is anything to go by. John's been stretched too thin by absence, by the nagging weight of not knowing – Rodney can feel each unsaid word in the tremors racing over John's skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Days

Rodney's been off-world for seven days – a span of time that's been stretched at least one day too long, if the way John's pressed up against him is anything to go by. _John's_ been stretched too thin by absence, by the nagging weight of not knowing – Rodney can feel each unsaid word in the tremors racing over John's skin.

"Hi?" he says when John pulls back to catch his breath: John's lips are already swollen from clumsy, desperate kisses and his eyes are heavy-lidded. He looks debauched.

"Yeah," John says, and leans in again, one hand sliding up to the back of Rodney's neck as if to hold him in place while he kisses him, while he backs him up against a bench in Rodney's happily-deserted lab, manhandling him clumsily and shaking with the force of whatever he's trying to say with hot, restless lips and a mischievous, clever tongue.

"Miss me?" Rodney asks, trying for humor, but his voice is shaking more than it should.

John growls and nips at the sensitive skin just below Rodney's jaw. "Thought about you," he confesses, and his voice is rough and hoarse, the vibrato of it something Rodney's only ever heard before in the darkness of their bedroom when they're both sleep-heavy and sated. "Used my own fingers but they're not like you." He's rocking against Rodney's body, hips pressed against hips, and Rodney would bet all of the Canadian dollars he's got sitting in a drawer in his quarters that John isn't doing it consciously. "They don't go deep. Not thick enough." He covers Rodney's mouth again, breath and lips so warm, burning up. "They don't pin me down."

Rodney whimpers. "You can't – " He gasps as John shifts and bites at his earlobe, a sting of sharp, white teeth. "You can't just _say_ that, that's – that's _filthy_, and oh my god, did you really? Did you really . . ."

"S'not as good as when you're fucking me," John says in a heated rush, the same fingers he used to touch himself stroking lines of knowing all over Rodney's skin. "Coming. S'not as good."

Rodney's breath hitches and spills into the crease of John's shoulder, chases over the places where he's pressed damp kisses to John's stubbled throat. "Tell me more?" he whispers, and "not here" and "god, you, you – " because these are the kinds of confessions he's never been able to draw out of John before, not during all the mornings they've woken up together, and Rodney is so close to bending John over, right here on his lab desk, and fucking him until he comes all over a couple thousand dollars of US government computers

John's always been something of a telepath in these matters. "Do it," he murmurs right into the shell of Rodney's ear. "Fuck me, fuck me, c'mon. . . ."

It's been seven days.

"Jesus," Rodney breathes, and decides that discretion is the better part of, well, horniness – performs a feat of unsurpassed moral fortitude and drags John toward his quarters because god, _god_, and John's trembling under his hand the whole damn way. Rodney's fingers are fisted in John's jacket, pulling him along since John's body's already gone soft and loose, the way it usually does when Rodney's buried inside him. John doesn't protest the rough treatment, doesn't offer token resistance though anyone could come across them like this in the hallway; doesn't protest when Rodney drags him through the door of his quarters and pushes him down onto the bed. He just falls back willingly, lets himself be pinned, lets Rodney splay his legs just so, and offers up the most careless, charming, half-wrecked smile when Rodney realizes there's a distinct lack of underwear beneath his BDUs. Rodney bites back a groan, because John had been frustrated and thinking of him and _planning_ this, all the time that Rodney was trying to get back home. He kicks off his shoes and strips as fast as he's able – has to make a conscious effort to still his shaking hands so that he can slick up his fingers to push inside John. But John's ahead of him, catching his own thighs with his rough, callused hands, holding himself open, and Rodney has to grab the base of his own cock because _jesus_.

"I took care of it," John says.

Rodney breathes for a moment, thinks cold, unsexy thoughts, and only then can he brace himself on his suddenly unsteady arms and push in, slowly; John lets him for all of two thrusts before he flips them over, reflexes so quick that Rodney's on his back and gasping at the sudden difference in position, in _depth_, before he really knows what's happened, lacking words to explain how it feels. "Been doing some reading," John says, already breathless. "Wanna try something?"

Rodney can't offer much in the way of agreement, not with John lithe and beautiful above him – can't think of how the hell he'd ever disagree, so he just runs his hands up John's sides, fingers spread wide, greedy for his skin, and hopes John can recognize the jerk of his head for a nod.

It's enough – John bends back, back, the long length of his spine arching and falling so that he's lying against Rodney's legs, clutching his own ankles to keep himself in place, and from this angle, all Rodney can see is the pure curve of him, settled at an angle that's so deep, so good, that Rodney's eyes are already rolling back in his head. He can only imagine what it's like for John, can only picture what it must feel like to take something so deeply inside you, but judging by the happy, basso rumble of John's restless groans it has to be good. Rodney thrusts, helpless to stop himself, but in this position, he can only manage a shallow little hitch of his hips. Each thrust seems appreciated: John rolls his pelvis, slow and calculated, and god, god, that hint of friction is enough to have Rodney clutching at the sheets, eyes squeezed shut, every neuron in his body focused on his cock, his balls, the way everything's become a slow burn of heat and god, the pressure the clench of John's muscles, but it's going nowhere, and he wants to come, wants to come so badly, can't, can't - "_John._"

John lazily rolls his head from side to side, eyes closed fast. "More," he says, voice slurred and Rodney can tell that the bastard's _grinning_, "more," and he works himself against Rodney slowly, clenching around him on the downstroke as if to reassure himself of the thick, hard cock that's spreading him apart. Rodney gives him what he can, his hands smoothing slowly over John's thighs, working the hair against the grain, making him shudder. And this is all very erotic, Rodney thinks, this is all very brain-searingly hot, John Sheppard draped over his legs, flexing and bending and mumbling incoherently, one arm raised above his head, fingers hooked over the other end of the mattress, but he needs more, needs contact, needs - and he sits up, slips in deeper and John groans, blissed out and helpless, and Rodney grabs for his hips, mutters "can't believe you," and "kama fucking sutra", and "no follow through in your planning, none, I--" and shifts them, grabs John's legs and shoves them over his shoulders, thrusts in hard and has to pause a second when John tips back his head and groans, wanton, wanting, then - between sharp, desperate breaths - says "Fuck. Fuck me. Please."

Fine, Rodney thinks, fine, lets go with it: how often do either of them get exactly what they want, and Rodney wants this, wants John, and holds on with a grip so tight he'll know John will be wearing ten round bruises on his skin come morning. Damned if that isn't the thought that telegraphs white-hot to his hips, has him thrust in harder, hard enough that the breath is forced out of John's lungs with each surge forward, hard enough that John's eyes are mostly closed and all Rodney can see are thin slivers of white under his eyelids. John's hands are splayed, clasping the sheets, his cock hard against his belly and he's grunting low and regular at the back of his throat – he's gone, John's _gone_.

Which is when it all becomes nothing but noise and sweat, building sensation, and when Rodney comes, cursing gracelessly as his body shocks and jerks, he's only vaguely aware of John coming right after, only thinks of it when he collapses on John and feels the sticky pull of come between their skin. He doesn't care. He might not be able to care about anything ever again. He's fucked all the care right out of his body and - okay he cares about the way John's absently petting his head, dragging his fingers affectionately through Rodney's hair. He cares in the way that means if John thinks of stopping Rodney might, might have the energy to tell him he's a fucking bastard in about another hundred years, another seven days, another –

He's pretty much never leaving again.


End file.
